Destination: Jakarta 2007

Jakarta 15/11/07

The toast has just popped in my room at the Josephine Guesthouse on Jalan Iskander, Kebayoran Baru, Jakarta.

The soft boiled egg in it's beige plastic egg cup looks very cosy.

Smiling Rian knocked softly on my door at 10 a.m.

The breakfast tray was loaded - a toaster, one green plastic thermos of hot water, a cup of orange juice, a plate of red papaya slices, neatly covered with a film of tightly stretched plastic wrap, a brown boiled egg sitting in it's plastic egg cup, a cup and saucer, a bowl containing paper packets of garam (sugar) and gula (salt), a paper packet with two hygienic tusuk gigi (toothpicks), a small plastic ziplock bag of marmalade, a paper pack of Josephine Guest House teh asli (pure tea) and a plastic tub of Orchid butter.

I cleared away the laptop from the table and Rian put the tray down. He left wishing me a smiling 'Enjoy your breakfast' and reappeared at the door two minutes later with a teaspoon.

Sudya is singing behind me (God bless iPods and mini speakers) and the background chorus of traffic and children's voices comes through the walls in an incessant hum.

The tray also came with one very small ant and no knife. So the softened Orchid butter has now been spooned onto the toast and I am really enjoying the sweet taste of the white bread and marmalade. Black tea with white sugar also tastes good.

Yesterday, back in Bali, seemed to be filled with glitches.

First of all I must have read my flight itinerary without my reading glasses on.

At 12.30 I left the classroom to go downstairs to the office and check on the driver for the one hour trip to the airport in Denpasar.

Anita, who had organised my flight to the AsiaWorks conference in Jakarta, saw me and said 'What are you still doing here? Your flight is at 1 o'clock!'

'No,' I smiled back calmly, 'it's at 3.25.'

Alda joined in, 'Lynne, I sent you the itinerary yesterday, the flight is at 1!'

I leapt up the stairs to the classroom and grabbed the itinerary out of my bag. 

Departure time Denpasar 13.05.

SHUTE

The flight was upgraded to 3.25 and I arrived in Jakarta Rp 333,000 less in my wallet. 

Jeez.

Lesson No. 1

Always use reading glasses when reading flight itineraries.

Then I waited at the Arrivals in Jakarta airport foyer for the driver to appear - organised by Anita beforehand. No taxi driver holding a LYNNE BECLU card but lots of other taxi drivers hanging over the barrier waving at me offering to take me places. And so I stood there waiting and watching. Three very helpful taxi drivers began to interrogate me on my life history and I must say I was not my usual patient, open-hearted self and hardly even noticed them let alone answered them.

I searched in my bag and found the map Alda had given me for the Josephine guesthouse. 

No phone number. 

One of the drivers, standing leaning over my map, began speaking and waving his hands. The other two joined him, nodding their heads, tongues clicking, pointing fingers at my map, speaking rapidly in Indonesian. The only word I recognised was Josephine.

Suddenly a voice ahead caused me to look up and there it was...

LYNNE BECLU

written on a large piece of cardboard. 

'Yes!,' I shouted, 'that's me!!!'.

Seconds later we were driving through the late afternoon traffic, past green fields and coconut palms.

I have just taken a black piece of white bread out of the toaster. 

The room had been slowly filling with smoke and a small part of my awareness had registered the smell. Now I know what Rian was trying to tell me about the toaster this morning. 

You need to push the automatic button UP with your finger when the toast is cooked or the toast will keep on cooking.

Lesson No. 2

Pay attention and stay focused when instructions for dysfunctional toaster are being given in Indonesian. Match up the hand gestures with the message. IF IN DOUBT stay next to the toaster when using.

And I thought that I was here for a Goal Setting/Achievement seminar and I have already learnt two lessons outside the venue!

Life is such a mystery.

Back to my arrival here yesterday……

The traffic increased as we neared the centre of the city. 

I felt a bit concerned that I was the only one in the taxi not wearing a seatbelt, as the driver was speeding along the tollway at what felt like an excessive speed after the slow street traffic of Ubud where I had just come from. 

His companion, 'Final Three' - the English translation of his Indonesian name - began answering my questions about life in Jakarta with lively gusto, ending each comment with a giggly burst of laughter.

'Yes, I have one older brother, one older sister.'

'So my name is 'Final Three' - I was third born and last one. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Mother and father both gone now. Mother has, what you call it? Bad kidney. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Father died in 1998. Diabetic. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'You have good weather in Bali? We have big storm, strong wind, big metal pole falling on taxi. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'You know volcano Krakatoa? Near here. 100km. Still eruption yesterday. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'And volcano in East Java - Kelud - maybe have big eruption very soon! Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Me? No children. Not marry yet. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Swamp over there? Fish ponds for people fishing. Government make this road through swamp. It sinking 3" every year. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Smog? No. Just fires burning. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

I watched out the window as Final Three kept up his informative chat, giggling myself every now and then in sympathy with him.

Buses went past, interiors dark, brown faces staring unsmiling out of the windows. A man came walking down a stairway wearing a large python necklace. No-one seemed concerned as he walked off into the crowd.

Final Three was explaining his ancestry to me as I gazed at towering blue and silver skyscrapers.

'Mother, Chinese/Dutch family. Tobacco exporters. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

'Once had uncles from my grandmother come and visit from Holland. Ha ha ha ha ha.'

We finally pulled up at the Josephine Guesthouse. 

Ten minutes until the AsiaWorks seminar registration began.

'Don't be late!' Alda had said on her final text message before I left Bali.

I hardly saw the Chinese wooden figurines in their little box on the shelf as I dashed up the stairs followed by two houseboys carrying my bag and laptop.

At 6.05 p.m I was in the elevator with seven other seminar participants on my way to AsiaWorks Beginner's Course. 

So many Asians in the waiting area! 

Why was I so surprised….this is Jakarta. First time I have been to a professional seminar outside  Australia.

Most of the seminar participants look quite young, some nervous, some excitedly speaking with friends.

A business-suited woman comes up to me with a wide, welcoming smile. It appears that I have not completed my pre-course homework correctly and I am led off to a table and given several forms to fill out. 

Final Three's laughter is still tickling my ears and my brain feels like some kind of mush.

I am looking at a question that says, something like, (I have already sworn confidentiality regarding all course paperwork) 'What values do you wish to focus on in the seminar?' and another one 'How will you know when your goals have been achieved?'

Years of self-development workshop journaling rise to the surface….

A man's voice has just interrupted this writing in my room at the Josephine. It is very loud, wavery, and sings in hommage to Allah. He must be standing on the rooftop next door. Either that, or the mosque has very sophisticated speakers.

Madonna is singing on my left but she is no match for this man with his voice of devotion singing to his God in wavering notes through the morning air. It sounds almost like he is singing underwater.

Back to AsiaWorks…….and my pen glides effortlessly over the paper. The homework is complete.

Loud music is now coming from the conference room and we are invited into the space by well-groomed, dark-suited graduates of AsiaWorks Advanced. It feels kind of 'Tony Robbins-ish' as the extremely loud music blares out from the loudspeakers and a buzz of excitement grows in the room. I choose a seat in the second row next to the aisle……easy escape if I get too sleepy and need to go out for a stretch…..the session finishes at midnight.

Back to the Josephine…..the heavenly wavering voice has started up again. It is softer this time and sounds very beautiful with it's accompanying traffic orchestration and Madonna singing 'Angels call your name…can you hear what they are saying …will you ever be the same?'

Perhaps this room at the Josephine is where the most learning will take place over the next few days?

The AsiaWorks conference is being led by an English trainer, Gordon, who has a female interpreter, glorious in her Muslim headscarf, mimicking his every move and gesture, translating his words into Indonesian so smoothly that you cannot find the bridge between the two.

Gordon, with his polished black leather shoes, polka-dotted navy tie, suit and dimples, knows his stuff. He walks with confidence up and down the front of the room speaking about commitment, the cost of the course, participation and awareness. The course laws are given a full half hour treatment. We are asked to honestly consider if we can abide by them during the time of the course.

 'If not,' says Gordon with a flash of teeth and dimples, and an Indonesian echo from the woman in the headscarf, 'perhaps this course is not for you!'.

Our first break comes after two and a half hours of Gordon speaking and several timid questions from the players. I have almost dozed off twice and had to get up from my chair, mentally checking off the list of laws in case of infringement, to go outside for a stretch and a glass of iced water.

Julie, a course participant from Bali, had leaned forward earlier in the talk, to offer me her large batik scarf. I had accepted graciously. The room is over-airconned. It must be 6 degrees in there and I have come here straight from the airport, via the hotel briefly, wearing a singlet top and light cotton pants. I had gratefully accepted her offer but then found that wrapped in the scarf's beautiful brown and white flower patterns I had felt so cocooned I began to go into hibernation.

Julie and I follow some of her friends out into the humid, musky evening air. We are all hungry and end up perched on plastic stools at the end of the street eating noodles fresh from the street vendor's wok washed down with a glass bottle of watery, sweet iced tea.

I couldn't care less about 'Jakarta belly' at this stage of the evening. The noodles taste warm and delicious. 'Watch out for the chili!' says Julie. But I don't mind the bite. Perhaps it will fire up my brain, ready for the final two hours tonight of AsiaWorks.

We all run back along the darkened street to the venue, mindful of repercussions if we break one of the laws...

BE ON TIME

I can't remember what the repercussions were…my fogged brain must have been on automatic pilot for that part of the session.

The time passes quickly. Perhaps the chili has had an effect.

We form into groups of nine or ten people, after playing a game based on honesty and courage. 

We take turns introducing ourselves around the circle. A beautiful mix of faces and voices, some English, mostly Indonesian. Businessmen and women, teachers, project managers, office workers. 

I spend time with Richard at the end. He has just been appointed project manager of a school project in Bali. A rugged, shaven-headed Englishman from Battersea with a silver ring piercing the top of his left ear. He and Gordon have already (almost) come to blows during a heated conversation earlier in the evening. Gordon seated on stage, folding and unfolding his long tailored legs  as Richard's face and voice got redder and redder. 

It promises to be an interesting four days. 

If I can stay awake.

Rian, from the Josephine Guesthouse, has come to pick me up at midnight - on the motorbike. 

Eeeeeek. 

I wasn't sure about all that Jakarta traffic but Rian promised me he would go slow. 

He offered me a small helmet to wear. When I put it on, the chin strap hung down loosely, 3" from my chin. When I pointed this out to Rian, after unsuccessfully trying to fasten it tighter, he just grinned and said 'It's OK!'.

I glanced out at the traffic in the darkened street and thought about destiny for a fraction of a second before asking him if he could please tighten the strap for me. Which he did.

The ride felt surprisingly safe and Rian did go quite slowly. 

It is only a five minute ride back to the Josephine Guesthouse.

'That wasn't too bad!  Terimah kasih Rian (thank you)' I said when we got off the bike. 

'It's OK.' Rian replied 'Fun!'

Destination: Bali 2010

ALL IN A DAY

It is almost the end of the day.

A Sunday that has been filled with so many sights, smells and sounds.

No wonder I am feeling so nauseous and overstuffed. 

My nude profile in the full-length mirror looks like a woman, nine months pregnant.

Every evening as I sink into bed I say to myself…. 

‘Tomorrow I will be reasonable with food. 

Only eat when I feel hungry. 

Small amounts.

A bit of gentle yoga after I wake in the morning. 

Nothing too strenuous. 

Perhaps lie in bed while I read something soothing and not too intellectually taxing. 

Then a slow swim in the pool. 

Or even, no swim, just a float, while I listen to the morning chorus of roosters, doves and forest birds.’

But it never happens.

I wake. 

Jump out of bed. 

Contemplate the day.

And excitement rises.

Will it be the Ubud market again to photograph the women and their piles of vegetables, tables of flowers or suckling pig snacks wrapped in brown paper?

Or perhaps a wander through the Monkey Forest to watch the monkeys and take some close-up shots?

A leisurely breakfast at Bali Buddha? 

Last night I drifted off to sleep holding my pillow, thankful that I could sleep in in the morning…nowhere to go, no photos to take, a relaxing day to drift through.

At what had seemed a very early hour, I had heard….

‘Lynne...Lynne’  spoken soothingly, unhurried, softly. 

My dream had continued unperturbed. 

Finally consciousness had kicked in. 

I had opened my eyes and stared at the door. 

A faint silhouette that could have been somebody was outlined against the blind covering the door. 

‘Yes’ 

I called faintly.

The silhouette moved. 

I jumped out of bed, calling

 ‘Wait a moment’

threw on my clothes and slid open the door.

There stood Eka, the new household help from the local village.

‘Sorry Ibu’, she murmured,

 ‘I go to Sukawarti market now. You want come too?’

‘Yes, OK. Give me 5 minutes Eka’.

After a short, completely misunderstood conversation between Eka and myself regarding who would ride the motorbike and who would sit on the back, we finally drove up the cement driveway with Eka on the back and me driving.

I am always surprised to see people already working when I ride early along the dirt road lined with coconut palms that leads from the village out to the main road.

Yesterday, a grey-haired grandmother was half hidden from view among the purple-flowering snake beans hanging from their bamboo trellises. She was picking the arm-length beans and looked up as I passed. 

On my return three hours later she had made two large piles of beans on the raised edge next to the bean field and was tying the bundles with a piece of dried grass. 

At the edge of a distant rice field a farmer walked slowly, wearing the same yellow shirt I had seen him wearing the day before. 

Another farmer crouched in the mud, harvesting kangkung, water spinach, surrounded by cut stalks poking out of the ground. 

An old woman, faded sarong tied around her hips, carried a curved machete in one hand, slowly making her way along the road.

I am riding along that same road even earlier this morning with Eka, weight barely noticeable on the back of the bike and it seems as if most of the village people are out in their fields as the sun shines pale yellow through the clouded sky.

We ride on through villages and along stretches of forested road, Eka saying ‘right’ or ‘left’ from time to time. 

The morning air feels cool and by the time we arrive at the market town I am feeling almost awake. 

The bike is parked and the parking fee of 1,000rp paid to the parking attendant. 

We pick our way along the wet street trying to avoid large pools of water, scrounging, skinny dogs and passing motorbikes.

I am not sure if Eka is here to shop or just to show me around so I ask her. 

She says that she has some shopping to do for her family. 

We walk past women sitting at low tables or squatting next to piles of vegetables or fruit. There is a strong smell of wet farmyard and rotting vegetables in the air and the streets are a lot dirtier than in Ubud.

Piles of discarded vegetables and plastic rubbish vie for space among the huge variety of produce.

Eka stops at one stall and buys a small bunch of kale.

We move on down a narrow alley, past women selling sweet rice in banana leaf parcels, squares of purple coloured sago or green pandan leaf-tinted tiny, round rice flour cakes, sprinkled with grated fresh coconut and palm sugar syrup. 

Eka chooses six pieces of the purple sago jelly and I offer to pay for it. She looks surprised but accepts with a gracious nod of the head and a shy smile.

The seafood here at this market is a lot more varied than the cooked mackerel, slices of grey fish, green prawns and tiny eels on offer at the Ubud market. 

Although I do not see the bags filled with live snails or the blood pudding and suckling pig snacks that I have noticed in Ubud.

The sate sticks with their half dozen, tiny bits of marinated chicken are being deftly twirled on the coconut shell charcoal braziers and the smoke mingles with the smell of pungent, tiny dried fish and yellow-fleshed jackfruit slices.

My empty stomach is beginning to reel.

After buying some bananas, a bag of mandarins  and a small bunch of pink water-lilies, we head back along the road to the bike.

Eka’s shopping for her family has consisted of one small bunch of kale and a brown paper cone filled with the squares of sago jelly. 

I wonder if she just wanted to show me the market? 

Ten kilometres there and back on a bike for two small purchases doesn’t seem to make much economical sense.

I drop Eka back to her house at the edge of the village. 

She told that there are a lot of people living at her family house. 

Her mother and father, her grandparents, an auntie, her cousins, her younger sister and herself. 

I wonder who will get to eat the six pieces of sago jelly?

A very elderly woman wearing an old sarong and woolly cardigan is walking out of the front gate when we pull up.

‘Your grandmother?’ I ask Eka, suddenly feeling embarrassed in case it is her mother.

 ‘Yes’ says Eka.

I smile at the old woman as Eka says something to her. 

‘Selamat pagi Ibu’ I say and move forward to shake the grandmother’s hand. 

She nods her head and gives my hand a very small, gentle shake.

I drive back to the villa and drop my market shopping in my room.

Do I go back to bed or take a leisurely swim in the pool?

No.

It’s back on the bike and off to the food market at Ubud.

I arrive at the food market in Ubud.

It is 8a.m. The market has been in full swing since 6a.m.

Women sit selling fruit, onions, red shallots, chilis, palm sugar, palm leaves for offerings and slices of honeycomb. 

The women who sell the take-away food in brown paper cones, have almost emptied their enamel basins of vegetable and chicken curries, bean and coconut salad, sambols and rice.

The young men that sell piles of coloured lace fabric and secondhand clothes have finished packing everything back into huge plastic bags. 

One of them recognizes me and calls out a cheery

 ‘Hello Miss!’.

I move through the darkened passageway, where several stalls sell spices, sauces, carved wooden Buddhas and small round tins of silver clove ointment.

I pass more women selling fruit, baskets of flowers, materials for making offerings and the man with his woven basket filled with day old chickens. Finally I am standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the food market.

I am beginning to recognize some of the women who sit here day after day. They are always in the same spot selling more or less the same thing.

The woman on the stairs with the tray of dark, coiled blood pudding and small plastic packets of green chilli sambol. 

The group of women who sit waiting for casual requests to carry loads from here to someplace else. Always watching, sometimes joking, often laughing.

And at the bottom of the stairs on the left, half hidden away, the woman who sells packs of peanuts, cassava and taro chips, soy crisps and rice crackers, all shapes and colours. 

The salt woman at the bottom of the stairs, who also recognizes me.

We share a friendly smile as I remember how I had begun to buy a kilo bag of coconut from her the day before, only to discover that it was salt. 

Beyond her, in a covered alcove, the tables of freshly butchered meat, beef, pork or chicken, dimly lit, impossible for me to photograph unless I use a flash.

Dogs wander among the tables licking at the blood-soaked empty plastic bags. Flies have a morning sip, as they wander over the bits of chicken or slices of meat, incense curling from flower-decked offering boxes high up on the wall.

Out in the open area sit the women selling vegetables, fish, and flowers. Day in day out. 

After buying a wooden coconut grater I stop at the table where the woman sits who sells jackfruit and coconut. 

She tells me that it is 7000 rph for a whole coconut cracked and de-shelled or 5000 for a coconut as is. 

I take the  de-shelled version and photograph her deftly splitting open the coconut with a large knife and removing the husk with a metal tool shaped like an elongated narrow spatula.

Moving on to the suckling pig stall, I have accepted a paper cone filled snack where the woman, after originally giving me a 20,000 rph price, has now reduced it down to 10,000. 

Not for me, but I want to take it back to the villa for the Balinese kitchen staff, Gede, Wayan and Kadek. 

Gede told me yesterday that he liked suckling pig and that the correct price to pay at the market would be 10,000rph.

I leave the food market after buying several small packets of ground spices for my kitchen back at the villa.

A quick ride on the motorbike and I have arrived at Bali Buddha, a café on a small side street off the main road in Ubud. 

I am still feeling slightly nauseous so order a soto ayam, or traditional Balinese chicken soup. 

The soup arrives and I am very disappointed. 

The chicken is chewy, the soup lacking in flavour, with few vegetables and no herbs and the experience not nourishing as I was hoping. 

I comfort myself with the dessert, living tropical fruit pie and a delicious drink consisting of dates, bananas and milk, a ‘dosha balancing drink’, an ayurvedic speciality. 

I read my book, ‘Arabesques’, by Robert Dessaix, and the time passes, well spent.

I have an urge to photograph monkeys in the wild.

Riding the bike along the streets, taking care in among the buses, cars and motorbikes, I finally reach the sacred monkey forest. 

Bike parked, I walk up the road into the forest after paying the 20,000 rph entry fee at the entrance. 

There are several monkeys nearby, eating bananas or sweet potato chunks, feeding babies, sleeping or grabbing bananas off tourists.

I walk along until I reach the path that goes down to the sacred spring.

I stand for a moment and watch a male monkey pulling at his penis.

He continues, as several tourists make laughing comments in passing. Finally a creamy drop oozes out of the end of his penis. 

He looks at it, wipes it off with his finger and eats it.

On this pathway I spend a wonderful moment getting up close and friendly with a beautiful mother macaque and her tiny, black-haired baby. It is only later that I realize she has given birth very recently, the umbilical cord is still trailing from the baby’s abdomen and the mother’s hind parts are red and swollen.

Down at the bottom of the pathway, after descending a multitude of steps and passing underneath a gigantic strangler fig whose trailing roots hang down to the staircase, a small temple appears. 

Two obese female statues sit at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the temple gateway. 

Moss-covered, bulging breasts, pendulous stomachs, bulbous noses.

 I can well believe that no demon in his right mind would want to cross these two powerful Mamas.

 A square stone pool contains sacred water from the spring, watched over by a mossy stone carved ganesha and a statue of a woman pouring water from a vase.

At the corner of the pool sits a carved stone frog holding his very swollen penis. 

Tourists pose next to him for a souvenir to take home to St Petersburg, Madrid or Sydney. 

I wonder what he is doing there. 

Fertility statue?

The penis has no moss growing on it and shines smoothly black. 

It’s owner shows the ravages of time. He has a velvety moss coat.

I have photographed enough monkeys now and make my way back to the bike. 

Then it’s a short ride up Monkey Forest Road and a left turn towards the restaurant ‘Casa Luna’. 

I settle in with an ‘Arak Attack’.

Arak being the local fermented palm wine and therefore much cheaper than a tequila. 

The attack consists of a sizeable proportion of arak with lime juice and tonic water. 

It is not too bad. 

Although I feel the effect very quickly. 

I must check what percentage of alcohol is in arak. 

I suspect it is way above beer or wine, more like the home-made liqueurs in France.

Lethal.

I have ordered steak with creamy pepper sauce.

It is perfectly cooked, delicious and comes with potatoes and a salad of thinly sliced purple cabbage, tomato and cucumber.

I am on a roll reading ‘Arabesques’. 

Robert Dessaix is a brilliant writer. 

He is speaking of his posthumous relationship with the French writer Albert Gide. 

Several times I laugh out loud…with great joy. 

I feel like I am having a conversation with Dessaix.

Perhaps it is the arak, but life is good, FEELS good. 

Dessaix is making the most truthful, hilarious and clever remarks about relationship, sexuality and aging that I have ever come across. 

I stifle a few more outbursts of genuine hilarity behind my carefully ironed Casa Luna serviette and finish the glass of arak.

I can’t believe it but I have ordered another arak attack. 

I hope that the bike ride back to the villa, 8 km, will be a smooth event-free ride. 

And now I call the waitress over to order a dessert. 

Almond chocolate torte…and a latte. 

I am now feeling decidedly full. 

Even over full. 

Perhaps slightly decadent. 

I am sure Robert Dessaix would be clapping his hands with delight.

Destination: Ubud, Bali 2007

Even after drinking a huge glass, salt-encrusted, of potent margarita, I can still read the writing over there on the wall…..

GET TWISTED @ Naughty Nuri's Warung and Grill  

The hash house in Ubud.

My plate of ribs pushed to one side, I type away on my laptop. 

The sound of motorbikes, Aussie accents, children laughing, Balinese voices, nasal in the smoke- filled air, comes to me as if from under the ocean. 

That margarita must have been stronger than I thought. 

The bowl of mashed potato, scraped clean, sits on the bench behind the laptop. 

The steamed vegetables, barely cooked, swimming in buttery juices, fragrant with garlic, have long gone. 

I have paused in my rib attack… this is only the third time in my life that I have eaten ribs.

I counted them as they lay across the plate, glistening in their coat of red shallots (finely chopped insists, Nuri, the owner), garlic and soy sauce (must be ABC brand). Eleven ribs in all. Hmmmm. 

Is it possible for a cow to be this small I wonder? 

Recollections of an article I read somewhere last week about the number of dogs consumed in the restaurants of Bali comes to mind. 

I check the ribs again…..could be a Pomeranian? 

Better not to go there. 

They ARE very tasty. The meat falls off the bones.

 The barbecue smokes constantly outside Nuri's Warung, mingling with the exhaust of passing motorbikes and the gentle smoke curling upwards from clove-scented cigarettes. 

This eating place has its regulars. A 10 year institution in the mountain town of Ubud, it encompasses the former site of three garages.

The smiling waitress asks if I would like another drink. I am down to the ice in my glass.

I laugh and say 'Motorbike' making a driving action with my hands.

 'You come back tomorrow for martini!' she grins back at me. 

I still have seven ribs to go. 

A group of Japanese have slid onto the bench beside me. The slim woman next to me is standing up to take a photograph of her bowl of soup. 

Perhaps I should offer for her to take a shot of my seven remaining ribs?

It is decidedly hot in this small eating house, despite the enormous open side windows and front doors. The mix of cultures here is indeed global…Balinese, Japanese, Australian, German, American. 

There is a cow smiling down on me from the top of the wall. 

On second thoughts…it must be a Balinese buffalo. 

Cows don't have horns like that…or at least not the cows I remember. 

A voice from across the warung says 'I could drink twenty more of those'. 

I could drink a martini myself……supposedly the best in Bali. 

But for that I will have to finish my ribs and ride on down to the ATM machine.

On second thoughts…I could wrap up the ribs and offer them to the dog that guards the passageway to my house. He looks like he could use them more than me.....